Gray Girl Page 8

  Heritage, Bugle Notes, 81, p.243

  They marched back from Lake Frederick to the gray walls of West Point where the ratio of upperclassmen to new cadets tripled. With yearlings and cows back from their summer training, plebes never stopped saluting and shouting, “Good morning, Sir,” “Good afternoon, Ma’am” or “Good evening, Sir” while pinging and squaring off, from revile to taps. The new cadets also received their first promotion—to “cadets.” They were still plebes, so it was like going from “private” to “private first class.” They were still the lowest things around.

  Another transition from Beast to the academic year required moving to new companies. Perhaps because the military lifestyle is one of constant transience, West Point didn’t allow anyone to stay in one place very long. Plebes were scattered from the ten Beast companies to the four regiments—called First, Second, Third and Fourth Regiments respectively. Each regiment had nine companies—Company A through Company I. Jan was assigned to H-Company, Third Regiment, the H-3 Hamsters.

  Angel Trane introduced herself to Jan. The petite, soft-spoken, black girl from Queens, New York seemed shy and introverted, not anything like Leslie Wright. And she looks like she might fall over on a breezy day.

  “I’m Jan Wishart,” her voice cracked. Saying and hearing her own first name for the first time in seven weeks choked her up. She never liked her first name. It was plain and boring. ‘Jan’ wasn’t even short for Janice or Janet or Janiqua. Still, she almost cried when she said it aloud to Angel.

  With very little talking, the new roommates began to put their room in order for inspection. They were fast at work when they were interrupted by the telltale knock of an upperclassman—two loud thumps—like he was trying to knock the door down.

  “ENTER, SIR!” the roommates yelled simultaneously while popping to attention. The door slammed open. There stood a familiar firstie—the cream of the crop, the best of the best, a demi-god in their eyes, a perfect specimen—his gig line absolutely straight, dress-off tight, shoes sparkling, saber gorgeously at the hip, and white gloves in hand.

  Stunning piece of work.

  “So, I take it you are Trane?” Cadet Trane nodded to Angel.

  “I am, Sir,” she replied.

  “Oh.”

  Silence.

  “Well, my name is also Trane,” he said, “and I thought we might be related.”

  Pause.

  Jan bit her lip trying not to laugh.

  “Guess not, huh?” Trane was probably of Irish or English descent but certainly not African.

  “No, Sir,” squeaked Angel.

  Cadet Trane started laughing. The two women looked at each other and tried not to laugh, but they started chuckling anyway. They quickly recovered their composure, unsure how this firstie would react to their lapse in decorum. Cadet Trane kept laughing. So they smiled with him.

  Leslie Wright was sent to I-3 while Kristi McCarron and Debra Plowden became roommates in H-3. Having Kristi in the same company almost made up for the presence of someone Jan hoped would NOT be in her new company—Dogety. At least Jackson is far, far away from me in B-1!

  Drew went to G-3, but because G and H companies shared a floor, he ended up in the room next to Jan’s. They became even better friends, winking to each other when passing and stopping in each other’s rooms for supplies, questions or advice. If roommates weren’t available, they gave each other dress-offs and checked gig lines. They often studied together in Jan's room because Drew’s roommates didn’t like having females in their room. The door had to remain open whenever the opposite sex was present. An open door was also an open invitation for upperclassmen to harass them from the hallway which most plebes wanted to avoid whenever possible. Jan and Angel didn’t mind that though. They figured Drew’s presence trumped any threat of hazing.

  Jan arrived at her first class two days later and sat at a vacant desk in the middle of the classroom—not too far, not too close. She looked around the room. No other women.

  “CLASS ATTENTION!” The cadets popped out of their chairs as the professor entered the room. The Army Captain walked to the “P’s” desk and dropped his three-ring binder and books. Then he went through the room, inspecting shoes, haircuts, gig lines, dress-offs and any other aspects of the cadets' appearances.

  “Cadet Jamison, did you shave this morning?” Captain McGinn asked.

  “Yes, Sir,” Jamison said.

  “Well, it looks like you missed a few spots. Make sure you come to my class with a clean-shaven face next time.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  The professor found some fault with each one of them. “Your shoes haven’t been shined, Mr. Trawick.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “They better be sparkling for the next class.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  Captain McGinn came to Jan’s desk and walked completely around her. When he faced her again he asked, “Miss Wishart, when’s the last time you had a haircut?”

  “Just yesterday, Sir.”

  “Well, they didn’t take enough off. Your hair is below the bottom edge of the collar of your shirt.”

  Jan didn’t comment because he hadn’t asked her a question. Captain McGinn moved his eyes down her body until he reached her shoes. After a longer than normal pause, he said, “Miss Wishart, don't expect special treatment from me. I don't play favorites with female cadets like some of my colleagues do.”

  She decided she didn’t need to respond to that either. But then he asked, “Do I make myself clear, Miss Wishart?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  Captain McGinn finished examining his new students and said, “Take seats!” The cadets sat down behind their desks which had been arranged in rows and columns. The professor walked to his desk and picked up the binder. “Now, everyone stand back up,” he said. “When I call your name, I want you to pick up your desk and move it to form a line starting on my right, your left. Andress!” Cadet Andress picked up his desk and placed it down on one side of Captain McGinn’s desk. “Clarbonne! Ferguson! Juten! Laramore!” He continued to name cadets. Each one lifted his desk and placed it in the line. The desks turned at the corner of the room, forming an open rectangle.

  The entire class had been called except for Jan. She continued standing behind her desk, now enveloped on three sides by her classmates. Captain McGinn closed his binder, placing it back on his desk. Jan was not about to move without being told.

  “Miss Wishart, take your desk and move it to my left, your right,” he said. She lifted her desk and placed it in the very last spot in the three-sided rectangle.

  Captain McGinn put down his binder and picked up the teacher’s edition of the history textbook. He walked to the left of his desk and sat down on top of Jan’s desk. Facing everyone else in the class, he said, “Open your textbooks to the table of contents.” Jan opened her book and laid it on her lap because Captain McGinn’s ass took up her entire desktop. “I expect you to read three to four chapters for every class,” he said. “And sometimes more. There will be pop quizzes whenever I feel like it and weekly exams on the reading every Friday.”

  Jan could hear Captain McGinn quite clearly although she could only see his back. He stood up and wrote the homework assignment on the chalkboard, then he walked fully around his desk before sitting back down on top of Jan’s desk.

  This was just part of the game. Jan learned a thing or two from Beast and her strategy for this professor would be the same. Keeping a blank facial expression, she would not belie her thoughts. Other than the customary “yes, Sir” or “no, Sir” during the inspection, she would not speak in class. She resolved to keep her head down and never show emotion. I am a stone.

  West Point required all cadets to participate in athletics, either on a Corps (Varisty) team, a Club team or an intramural team. One could never just hang out, go for a walk, meditate, or—God forbid—take a nap. Down time was frowned upon.

  Angel Trane made the rowing team as the coxswain because she weigh
ed a hundred pounds soaking wet. Debra Plowden had been recruited for the swim team. That left Jan and Kristi as the only plebe women on the H-3 intramural soccer team. It was either that or intramural lacrosse which involved a stick. After the pugil boxing experience, Jan never wanted to touch anything resembling a stick.

  Neither woman had ever played soccer and it showed. They couldn’t kick the ball worth a damn. The team soon learned to keep the activity away from them, and they soon learned to stay out of the way. It was a good understanding.

  All through September and most of October, after classes on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, Jan and Kristi marched to the soccer field for an intramural match which Jan renamed “intra-murder.” While everyone else played soccer, Jan and Kristi talked. She was not sure why she started calling Kristi, “Kissy,” but since Kristi didn’t object, the name stuck.

  Jan learned that Kristi's real father died in Vietnam when she was five years old. Her mother announced, “Your father is dead,” and that's all she was told. No one in the family ever mentioned his name again. In high school, she finally researched how he died.

  “Helicopter crash. He was the pilot. Most likely shot down. Never saw it coming. Four other men on board.” Kristi rattled off the facts like she was reading a list of ingredients.

  Jan could not imagine losing a parent. Her family completely intact, both parents still married, all siblings alive and accounted for. She remembered the Vietnam War, of course, and the body counts each night on the news. The Wishart parents tried to shelter their children from the coverage, but Jan heard it anyway. Yet, she never actually knew anyone who went to Vietnam, never mind anyone who died there. Kristi seemed to have lived through the war, while Jan just lived through the news of the war.

  Every Wednesday evening at 1900 hours, the H-3 plebes assembled in the Company dayroom. The 1976 cheating scandal, still an open wound for the Academy, resulted in weekly honor classes for plebes. Using scenarios, role-playing and hypotheticals, they dissected the Honor Code’s succinct statement: “A Cadet will not lie, cheat, or steal, nor tolerate those who do.”

  A “lie” not only meant telling an un-truth but also quibbling, making evasive statements or embellishing stories. “Cheating” was not limited to copying someone's paper or stealing answers to a test. It included cutting corners in any area of life—to take something away from the full experience of a duty, sport or task. “Stealing,” meant taking something that did not belong to you or taking something without paying for it. It could also mean taking credit for someone's words, ideas or creativity.

  Jan sat on one of the four, worn out, burnt-orange couches in the dayroom next to Kristi McCarron. Plebes were still not allowed to speak to one another in public so Jan nodded and smiled at her new friend and Company mate. Then Kristi whispered, “How’s the ‘amen-oh-yay-ah’ going?”

  “Great!” Jan whispered back, “You?”

  “Perfect! I could get used to this!”

  Cadet Trane, the Company Honor Representative, handed out papers to the H-3 plebes. “Take a moment to read over the first scenario,” he said. Jan shared a paper with Kristi as they read silently:

  Two brothers, both cadets, were home on leave. One brother brought his girlfriend to a nightclub where she used a fake ID to gain entry and to purchase alcoholic drinks. When the other brother found out, he thought this could be an honor violation. What should he do?

  He should get his own damn girlfriend.

  “Alrighty then. Everyone finished reading the first scenario?” Cadet Trane asked. “What do you think? Was this a violation of the Honor Code?” The plebes remained silent for a few moments. “Anyone care to comment?”

  “Sir, yes, the Code has been breached,” Cadet Winnans answered.

  Tool! Jan hated when some cadets gave the “correct” answer instead of a real answer.

  “Why’s that, Cadet Winnans?” Trane asked.

  “Sir, the cadet obviously knew his girlfriend was lying and cheating. She lied about her age and cheated the nightclub which had a responsibility to serve only legal adults.”

  Are you shitting me?

  Another H-3 plebe spoke, “Well, I think it really depends on what she looked like.” Laughter lit up the room. Jan glared at Rick Davidson, trying to decide how she felt about him. With Winnans, it was clear—he was an idiot. Rick Davidson, on the other hand, was harder to judge. He was prior service like Cadet Trane, but with one major difference. Davidson earned a combat patch for participating in the doomed Iranian hostage rescue mission.

  Operation Eagle Claw, a highly risky operation, ran into a series of unfortunate events, which led to then-President Jimmy Carter’s decision to abort. On the return flight, a refueling helicopter kicked up sand which flew into the nose of a transport plane causing it to explode. Eight men died. No one seemed to know Rick Davidson’s exact role in the experience, but everyone knew he had been there.

  “Or maybe it should depend on what HE looked like,” Jan blurted out. He’s just another plebe like the rest of us.

  Cadet Trane brought the discussion back, “Well, he’s on leave, right? He’s not responsible for his girlfriend, is he?” Jan detected a hint of “pissed-off-ness” in his voice.

  Maybe Trane thinks this scenario is ridiculous, too!

  “Sir, he was aware of her false actions. He knowingly allowed her to lie and cheat. That makes it an Honor Code violation,” Winnans insisted.

  “What are you talking about?” Kristi McCarron practically shouted. “Was he supposed to hold her hostage until she gave up her fake ID? She is not his property! She can do what she wants!”

  Rick Davidson said, “Well, not if he’s paying.” Laughter erupted again.

  Winnans is a tool which he probably can’t help. But Davidson is just being a jerk. “So if you are paying, your date has to do whatever you want? Is that how you work, Davidson?” Jan locked into eye contact with him.

  No one else had challenged him before, and everyone could tell Jan was not joking. She resented that Davidson seemed to get “a pass” most of the time. No one argued with men who had combat patches which Jan somewhat understood. Still, we are all equals here.

  “Whoa, easy there, Wishart. I’m just joking,” Davidson said. Her Company mates went quiet. Jan felt a rush of blood in her neck and cheeks.

  “Okay, back to the issue here,” Trane said. “Miss McCarron has a point. Contrary to Mr. Davidson’s thoughts, the woman has a right to do what she wants.”

  “Yes, but her boyfriend should not have participated in her actions. He should not have even gone to the bar knowing she would use a fake ID,” Winnans argued.

  “Right! And who are we, the morality police?” Kristi asked, getting as fed up with Winnans as Jan had with Davidson.

  “Okay, so what should be done?” Trane asked.

  “Sir, the other brother needs to report the honor violation to his Honor Rep,” Winnans continued.

  “What?” Kristi had had enough. “Would you turn in your own brother?”

  “If it was my duty, yes.”

  What a freakin’ idiot!

  “Well, I’m glad I’m not related to you!” Kristi exclaimed. Jan let out a chortle.

  “What’s so funny, Miss Wishart?” Trane asked with a slight smile.

  “Nothing, Sir,” Jan replied, not wanting to say anything more.

  “Well, it must have been something or you wouldn’t have snickered.”

  She sighed, “Sir, I think it’s more unethical to turn against your own brother than anything else.”

  “Please elaborate,” Trane said.

  “Well, Sir, it seems to me that you have to be a pretty big jerk to turn in your own brother. I mean it’s not murder. It’s not embezzlement or anything that really hurts anyone else.” Jan felt a little bolder now.

  “But is it an honor violation?” Trane pushed for an answer.

  “If he were my brother, I would talk to him. I’d tell him that it could be considered an honor v
iolation. And for that reason, don’t do it again. But I don’t think I’d turn him in. I would quit first.”

  “Amen, Sista!” Kristi shouted and held up a palm for a high five. Jan felt awkward but high fived her back anyway.

  “Loyalty isn’t one of the three hallowed words,” Winnans protested. Everyone knew what he was talking about, of course. All plebes were required to memorize part of a speech given by General Douglas MacArthur to the Corps of Cadets in 1962. This quote, more than any other, is the epitome of West Point values:

  “Duty—Honor—Country. Those three hallowed words reverently dictate what you ought to be, what you can be, what you will be. They are your rallying points: to build courage when courage seems to fail; to regain faith, when there seems to be little cause for faith; to create hope, when hope becomes forlorn.”

  Cadet Trane smiled, cleared his throat and said, “Well, it says here that this is, in fact, an honor violation.”

  “You’re kidding me,” Jan mumbled.

  Cadet Trane read from the teaching plan. “The non-offending brother is duty-bound to report the honor violation to his Company Honor Representative.” Trane continued reading, “Although this would be a difficult task, a cadet must always choose to do the harder right over the easier wrong. The cadet with the girlfriend was an accomplice to a lie, and therefore, is guilty of violating the Honor Code. While the young woman in question is not a cadet, the code clearly states, ‘A cadet will not lie, cheat or steal, nor tolerate THOSE who do.’” Cadet Trane looked up from the paper.

  What bullshit! I would never rat on my brother—even if he robbed Fort Knox!!”

  The room fell silent until Kristi spoke, “Sir, that’s ridiculous.”

  “I don’t like it much either, Cadet McCarron. But this is the hard truth about the Honor Code. All of us have to abide by it or we can transfer to the Naval Academy.” A few uncomfortable chuckles punctuated the room.